


legend has it

by scribacchina



Series: Under The Hill [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A little, Angst, Depiction of Abuse, Gen, I mean the word "fuck" is there but it's used just once, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, faeries!au, slight - Freeform, still. Mary Lou is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11991570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: Credence falls down the Hill by mistake.It is Mother's fault. In her effort to push him towards salvation, she has led him right in the opposite direction.Or, the Faery AU no one asked for.





	legend has it

**Author's Note:**

> Right. I wrote this in a rush. It shouldn't be this long like. What the heck. Anyway. It's supposed to be the first part of a series. But, school is starting soon and I'm not sure when I'll manage.
> 
> If you like this story, please leave a comment or kudos. I need validation.

Credence falls down the Hill by mistake. 

It is Mother's fault. In her effort to push him towards salvation, she has led him right in the opposite direction. 

\---

She catches him dozing off during mass. Doesn't matter he is exhausted because of the endless chores she forces on him; as the pastor finishes his sermon, she grabs him by the scruff and drags him out the church. 

Credence does not struggle. There is no reason, and he has no strength to. His bones ache and his wounds ooze. He is tired. 

His sisters watch, silently, as she throws him to the ground. Modesty takes a step forward, hesitant. Chastity's hand is fast on her shoulder, bringing her back to position. Credence is glad: he can take the punishments, he is used to Mother's wrath. Little Modesty isn't. 

"Go," Mother snarls, face livid. Credence stumbles up on his feet, palming at his elbows. 

"Go, go rest. Come back once you've learned to respect The Lord." 

So Credence goes. He follows the path to home, then he deviates. He can feel the eyes of their neighbors, piercing through his back. So he walks faster, and faster still, until he is running. Soon, the church is nothing but a small grey smudge in the distance. 

The air is wet, moist against his skin. It ruffles through his short hair, travels down his throat and into his lungs. But it brings no relief. 

He cuts through the fields, and makes a beeline. His battered shoes skim over mud, and somehow he doesn't fall. His clothes are dirty, and sweat-drenched. He stinks like a dead body, and he probably doesn't look any better. 

He goes to the woods. Credence visits them often - it is the sole way to reach the big city - and he is confident he'll be safe there. Under the silent watch of centuries-old oaks, the chirping of birds in his ears. Smothering out the memory of his Mother's voice. 

Credence reaches his sanctuary, and crouches down on the soft grass. He groans, a sharp sting between his ribs, stabbing at his flesh with every intake of breath. How long has he been running? The sun is high in the sky. Midday. 

Slowly, he inches close to a bush of berries. His stomach grumbles, and his head is heavy. He imagines Modesty, Chastity and Mother, seated around the table, slurping down the same tasteless gruel they have been eating for two weeks straight. 

Credence plucks at one bright red berry. It comes off the branch easy, with a light "pop". He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it with a preoccupied frown. He plops it into his mouth before he can think better of it. He has seen animals eat this same berries before. 

It is bitter, yes, but not as bad as he expected. The juice coats his tongue and gums, washing away the taste of bile brought up by his wild escape.

Credence lays on his side, and brings his knees up, close to his chin. He yawns, and paws at his face with a loose fist. He will heed Mother's advice, he decides. His eyelids lower of their own accord. 

Credence sleeps. He sleeps every hour he hasn't, succumbing to a deep slumber. No nightmares startle him awake: no fiery pits of Hell to devour his sinning soul. He sleeps and sleeps. Peaceful, at last. 

The forest observes him. 

\---

When he wakes, he finds the sun is gone. The moon is a fat, pale circle on the black background of the sky. A thousand stars dances all around her. There are no clouds to spoil the view. It is a beautiful night, and Credence can't help but gaze dreamingly, like a forlorn lover.

After sometime has passed, he perches himself onto his hands, and studies his surroundings.The woods are unrecognizable; he's never seen them so brimming with life: above his head, an owl hoots. A fox sniffs at the ground, before disappearing into the shrubs. Large swarms of fireflies, lighting up the dark. 

A pleasant breeze slithers through the threes. It rattles the tops, and a cascade of red-yellow-orange leaves swirls down in a cascade of warm colors. He watches, mesmerized. Autumn is coming. 

He rises once again, wobbling. For some reason, he does not feel afraid. He has never been into the forest past sunset, for Mothers' curfews are strict and she makes very few exceptions - she makes none for Credence - and still, his heart doesn't hammer wildly, spurned by fear. 

On the contrary, he is quite relaxed. That's when realization hits him-- he knew it was too wonderful to last. Grimly, he begins to make his way home. Mother, if she even agrees to let him in, won't be pleased with how behind the time he is. 

Then again, she is never pleased with whatever Credence does, so. 

There is music in the air. Credence hadn't noticed it before, but now it is clear-- music. He stops, and listens. It is faint, but unmistakable. Compelled, he turns his back to the beaten path and wanders deeper into the forest. 

And he forest, it parts for Credence, as if it had been waiting for him all along. The vivid green of day has turned a shadowy blue. Credence can't see much of anything, but his feet know the way. 

As he goes, venturing deeper and deeper still, the music grows. This close, Credence can tell this is no holy hymn. There is the sound of drums, and the shrill whistle of a flute. Voices, also. Credence can't make out the lyrics of the song they're chanting.

With a new kind of resolution, he picks up his pace. His legs carry him, weightless and without a worry. He feels as if he's floating.The night is suddenly much brighter, and Credence feels more incline to live it. Behind him, there's his home, and his family, and everything he's ever known. 

The town. The fields. The church, and the grey, never-changing skies. The pain. 

Ahead of him, a mystery. An adventure, perhaps. Music. Credence feels his lips curl into a smile, and an incredulous laugh bursts from his mouth. What is he doing? Has he gone insane? 

Eh. About time. 

The woods end, abruptly. The foliage dissipates, and he is faced with an unprecedented sight. 

The Hill is higher than anything he's ever seen. At the very top of it, is seated the moon herself, like a massive rock ready to tumble down the Hill's side. Credence is in awe: never, in his life as a devout Christian, has God managed to surprise him so. 

Ah, but this is no work of God, Credence knows. 

If he was a wise boy, he would leave. If he was the boy Mother wants him to be, a good little lamb, he'd leave and forget ever seeing the Hill. He'd scrub that enchanting music out of his head. He'd run back home, balancing apologies and prayers on the tip of his tongue. 

But he is neither of those. He is young, and impatient, and he's played dumb for too long. 

To Hell with it. He's going to climb the goddamn Hill. 

\---

Credence climbs the goddamn Hill. 

He starts slow, and progressively gets lost in his haste. He slips, a couple times. Rubs his face into the earth, and hears it thrum underneath him. The music is louder and the moon closer. He is more determinate than ever.

His nails sink into the soil. Credence climbs the Hill, up up to the Heavens. He does not know why he is climbing. He does not know what he is looking for, or what awaits him. He knows only what he's left behind-- and that he will never go back. 

(One of those is wrong; but he does not know yet.) 

He doesn't realize it immediately, when he arrives to the top. His hands scramble for something to latch on, and find nothing. He stares up, and the moon looks down at him. She seems just as delighted to see him as he is to see her. 

Frantically, he searches for the source of the music. On all fours, he advances. The top of the Hill is big enough, he thinks, to build a nice shed on. And flat too. It would not be difficult to place its foundations. 

He could bring Modesty here, and they'd live together, away from Mother's cruelty. They'd feed on berries, or whatever the woods provided. She could be happy, and he could be free. God's judging eyes don't reach this Hill. 

Credence beats the palm of his open hand against his temple. Focus, he tells himself. Focus on the music. 

Here's how he notices: he tries to get up, to have a better view, and falls miserably. His arms stretch in front of his face, to soften the blow. Only, the ground he lands on is much softer than what he expected. Credence prods at it, and big chunks shrivel upon contact. 

So is the entrance to the Hill revealed to him-- by mistake. It is a tunnel, long and dark. The music erupts from it, and all traces of doubt flee Credence's mind. Without a second thought, he dives in. The earth surrounds him, warm and damp. He doesn't look, but he's certain the entrance has already closed behind him. 

He slithers, using the sharp points of his elbows - still bruised since the morning antics - to push his body forward. He wriggles his hips and arches his legs.  
The space is narrow, but Credence doesn't feel constricted. It's more of a loving embrace than a smothering grip. 

He is the prodigal son and the Hill is his Father, welcoming him back with a great feast. And what a feast he gets. 

\---

There is a king under the Hill, because of course there is. 

Credence kneels before his throne of thorns, crawling in the middle of the large room. The ceiling is so high, he can barely see it. Orbs of light float above him. The whole place is bathed in red. Credence stops to consider that he might have dropped down in Hell. 

Strange creatures stand in a circle, surrounding him. They have inhuman faces, insects wings, and mean smiles. They stare at him with obvious curiosity, and Credence is reminded of his inquiring neighbors.  
The music has stopped. It's replaced by whispers and giggles. 

The scent of food and liquor is intoxicating. Credence's mouth has been watering from the very fist moment he'd set foot in the kingdom under the Hill. But he is too afraid to move, let alone demand to be served. 

The King, too, looks more animal than human. His features are sharp, and deadly pale. His hair stands up in blonde spikes. His eyes are a different color each - one, brown like the earth Credence has dug, the other an unsettling, icy blue. 

"What do we have here?"

His voice is deep and poignant. Foreign. Credence cannot bear to look up, so he tries to make himself invisible. Which proves to be difficult, since everyone is paying such great attention to him. This, he is not used to. Where he comes from, he's not a sight to behold. 

But here, under the Hill, where demons and monsters live. Here, he's the best of novelties. 

"A human boy," the King states, "so very young." 

Credence gulps down the fear, and nods. The King beckons him further, but hunched as he is, he doesn't see it until one of his minions comes and kicks his behind. He plunges forward with a whine, causing a general hilarity in the crowd. 

The King raises one hand, and they fall silent. Credence feels himself being lifted off the floor, as if he were a newborn baby, and hoisted up into the King's lap. 

"You must forgive them," the King says, slipping one sharp claw under his chin, forcing Credence to face him. The King smiles, and a row of needle-sharp teeth peak behind his colorless lips. Credence inhales sharply. 

"We don't receive guests often." 

"What is your name?" 

Credence hesitates. He is not a fool, as his Mother would have you believe: he has heard the stories of these people. Of their diabolical intents and ill-spirited jokes. He knows why the King wants his name, and he's not sure he wants to give it away.

The King narrows his eyes, and grins. He tilts his head, "Then, why are you here, little man?" 

The answer to that question isn't simple either. If he tells the King of his past, will he steal that from his tongue and chain him to the Hill forever? 

"I fled my home," Credence says, showing the scars on the back of his hands. The King hisses, tracing them delicately with one long, bony finger. 

"Iron wounds," he says. Credence winches at the memory of handing his own belt to Mother. There is nothing but pain in his past. That, he doesn't say, but knows the King must have heard it. 

The King hums, reaching for both of Credence's hands. He encloses them in one of his, large and impossibly smooth. 

"I see," the King whispers, "you came looking for revenge." 

Credence gasps. He has not. Has he? He trembles in the King's embrace. The King makes a noise like the cackling of a crow. Credence realizes it is a laugh, and feels ashamed. Why is he being laughed at? 

The King clasps his free hand to Credence's cheek. His palm digs into Credence's jaw. When he speaks again, his voice resonates right into Credence's head. 

"I can help you, little man. I can end your sufferings. You won't have to be afraid of your Mother anymore. I can punish her."

Credence's eyes widen until they hurt at the seams. Mother, punished. That would be something. But is it something he wants? Credence knows what the King will ask from him as a payment. 

He pictures his sisters. Once Mother realizes he is not coming back, she'll have to find another outlet for her rage. Would she choose Chastity, the eldest daughter? Not likely. She'd always been her favorite out of the three of them. Little Modesty then. 

The King eats Credence's name right from his lips. 

Credence does not remember much else from the night he falls down the Hill. The music is playing again, louder and merrier. Still, he cannot understand the language of their song. He lays there, gasping, as The King promises him Mother's head, and safety for his sisters. 

Credence promises him his undying loyalty. 

To seal the deal, the King reaches into the large sleeve of his cloak and offers him a plum. The fruit is plump and ripe, irresistible. Credence bites into it, feeding off the King's hand like a dog. It is unlike anything Credence has ever eaten: rich, and velvety, it satiates his cramping stomach and clears his mind. 

Something shifts inside him, that night. As he laps at the plum's core, a newfound hollowness blossoms in his chest.  
Something is missing. Grasping at his chest, he can feel no pulsing. 

His humanity is gone, and with it, his heart. He isn't too bothered.

\---

The king has a knight. It makes sense. (These beings of chaos, they are surprisingly well organized.)

He is away the night Credence falls down the Hill, but returns shortly thereafter. He has sent him on a quest, the King explains. When the knight comes back, another big feast is thrown in his honor.

Though, under the Hill, feasts are thrown just about every night. And day. At all times, there is someone dancing or singing, drinking and gorging down mysterious dishes. The plates refills themselves once empty, and so do the goblets. 

The knight's name is Percival. He has a human face and human eyes, but wears an armor made of bark. Credence is drawn to him. Percival spares him a questioning look, reaching for his sword. The king stops him with the quick flick of his wrist. Credence has the rather dire impression that it wouldn't take much effort for Percival to kill him and be done with it. 

Percival doesn't kill him. For the most part, he is totally indifferent to Credence- and anything else, for that matter. He goes to stand on the right side of the throne. From where he's sat, on the left side, Credence steals brief looks at him. 

Percival does not catch him, but the King does. He chuckles, and pats Credence's head. Patronizing, the way you treat an unruly pet. 

He brushes his hair back, cards his fingers through Credence's locks- have they always been so long? Credence doesn't recall. He takes great care of styling them, imitating the patterns of flowers and rivers. 

The King likes to parade Credence around. His old clothes are burned, and he's given dresses of leaves, stitched together with spiderwebs and flower steams. The King has him sleeping in a comfortable bed. There is always delicious food when he's hungry, and company when he's bored. 

They walk together through large gardens, and the King tells Credence the stories of his people - our people, as he insists. Sometimes, Percival walks with them, but he takes care to keep a distance. Trailing behind, silent and dark, like a shadow. 

Credence pretends not to see him. The King laughs at Percival, at his stoic frown. Credence finds himself sneering, too, simply out of spite. 

Percival is not disturbed apparently, but still, Credence does not dare make fun of him when the King is not around. He has just been granted this new, amazing life, he doesn't want it to end so abruptly. 

The space under the Hill seems to be infinite, Credence won't ever run out of places to visit. Everything is brand new, ready to be explored. Credence doesn't have any chores, nor obligations to follow. He is free to go wherever he pleases. 

Credence is never alone, under the Hill. If the King isn't at his side, a storm of little bugs-people floats around his head. Little goblins fret after him, jumping into his feet. Credence kicks them out of his way with a smile. Once, a tall figure with grasshopper legs and enormous eyes accompanies him. It speaks in rhyme and tells Credence of their realms history. 

In the very worst case, he has Percival. Credence doesn't acknowledge him, and Percival reciprocates. Credence becomes more poised when the knight is around. Gracious, even. He walks in long strides, chin up. Percival follows, without uttering a word. No matter how far Credence leads him. 

Ah, but the temptation is unbearable. Credence has so many questions that the King won't answer, and this world confuses - and delights - him more and more each day. For example: how come there is natural light in a place where the sun can't be seen? Where do those strange fruit come from, and why are they so appetizing? 

What is the King's name? 

That last one, Credence knows he should not ask. So he asks something else instead. They are resting, Credence lying under a pine-tree shaped fountain, sprawled on the grass. Percival guards over him from afar. 

"Are you human too?" 

Percival doesn't turn his head. He keeps staring straight ahead, and as his mouth moves, the rest of his face remains unnervingly still. 

"No," he says. Credence has never heard a voice like his: wood crackling in the fireplace, or splitting apart under the edge of a hatchet. The trunk of a tree, struck by lightning. Credence desperately wants to hear Percival's voice again. 

"Then where do you come from?" Where do all of you come from, he really wants to ask, but that is too big of a question and Credence has learned that the faes don't like big questions. Vagueness is their forte. The Devil, after all, resides in the smallest of details. 

Percival's eyes skim over Credence's head, "From up North," he murmurs. Credence hums, like he understands perfectly. North. He doesn't even know where North is anymore. 

"How long have you been here?" Credence asks next. Percival perches his head on the handle of his sword. The blade itself is hidden away in the socket. Credence has yet to see Percival brandish it in full splendor

"For a long time," Percival says, "For a very long time." 

Credence's grasp on time is becoming less and less stable, so Percival's answer doesn't fazes him as much as it would have. He doesn't know how much has passed since he got under the Hill, but his hair curls in long waves and his nails have grown into claws. His teeth, he feels them sharpening. 

Sometimes must have passed, but not too long, probably. It doesn't feel like too long. 

"Do you enjoy being here?" 

Credence props himself up on his elbows, neck against the stone of the fountain. Droplets of water spray onto his skin. Percival decides that this is a question worth his attention, and turns to look at him. 

Credence stares deep into Percival's eyes, and his stomach drops. They're a deep copper, flickers of gold appearing and disappearing with the shifting of the light. The knight's gaze is heavy, and ancient. Credence isn't sure if he likes it, or prefers being ignored. It is suddenly a very complicated thought to articulate. 

Eventually, Credence drops his eyes, when he starts to feel himself drown. Percival's eyes have seen so many things, both of this and of Credence's world. Credence wishes he would come sit next to him, and tell him those stories. He wishes Percival would let him lay his head in his lap, while he listens. the King loves that. Touching Credence. Keeping him close. 

Then again, the King and Percival couldn't be more different. 

"Do you?" 

He repeats, hoping Percival will cotton on. Credence stares down at his own bare feet, toes furling and unfurling in the soft earth. His soles are covered in mud. He thinks about dipping them into the water of the fountain. He could ask Percival to rub them clean for him. 

Credence feels heat rise to his cheeks. An unusual sensation, as of these days. 

Percival rises from his seat on the stump of a tree. He looks tired. Clearly, he'd like to have any other conversation but this one. Credence observes quietly his every move: the subtle way the muscles of his jaw clench, how wild strands of hair fall on his forehead. How his tongue peaks at the thin curve of his upper lip. 

"I, for one, do. Very much so," Credence intercedes, slowly unfurling his legs. Standing, he's nearly as tall as Percival. An inch or two taller, perhaps. Percival looks at him but doesn't respond. Credence can't understand, is he angry? Annoyed? 

Interested? 

Percival walks him back to his chambers. He doesn't answer Credence's question, and leaves immediately. That night, as the King's court reunites to celebrate another joyful day of mischief, Credence tries in vain to catch Percival's attention. It is a hard cause, especially with the Kings constantly demanding Credence's full attention. 

Credence takes to walk away with Percival alone more often, after that last time. 

The knight's quiet presence is the only stable point of this whole madness. Credence asks a lot of questions. Percival answers some of them, deviates the most. And still, Credence finds himself terribly intrigued. He also learns some important lessons, along the way. 

"Are you angry?" 

"No." 

"Then why don't you smile?" Credence says. Percival doesn't respond, and Credence throws his arms up with a gurgling sound. Why won't he just smile? What's so hard about that. He marches up to him, and jabs one finger into his chest. 

"Percival, smile," Credence says. He uses the same vehement tone he's heard from the King. Percival's muscles tense. There's a flash of surprise on his face, but it lasts only a moment. 

His lips stretch into the most charming smile Credence has ever seen. His eyes, though, aren't quite as into it. Percival drops it immediately, and doesn't talk to Credence again that day. Credence is too stunned to care. 

After, though, guilt comes to gnaw at him. He apologies, profusely. Percival ignores him, but doesn't shy away from their walks. Credence thinks the knight enjoys seeing him so distressed. 

\---

Credence kisses him under a maple tree - or what strongly resembles one - whispering his own name against Percival's lips. 

"Now we're even," he says, "you can use it whenever you want. I don't mind." 

Percival stares at him, evidently puzzled. Credence smooths the hard lines on his forehead with a thumb. There's a smirk to his lips that Old Credence wouldn't have dared. Percival is still watching him.

"No, I cannot," he states, eventually. It's Credence's turn to frown. His head tilts to the side. He's pouting, like an child. Petulant and insolent. If only Mother could see him now. 

"Why not?" 

Percival takes his time to respond, as he always does. They're sitting at the very base of the tree, Credence perched in Percival's lap. His body is warm, and solid. So different from the King's cold, scaly touch. Credence borrows closer to Percival's chest. 

"Because," Percival winds his arms around Credence's back, somewhat hesitantly, "I am a property of the King's. And properties cannot own anything." 

Credence startles at that. The King has his name, too. Does it mean that---? 

Percival's expression his sympathetic. For the first time, Credence sees his true smile; and it is bitter, and veiled with resentment. Credence bites his inner cheek until he draws blood, and then he asks, speaking softly. 

"How did you become His?" 

Percival tells him of the War. It is the greatest story Credence has heard of yet. A story of betrayal, and death, and suffering. Not too different from the ones depicted in that book Mother loved so much. 

He tells him, of how he used to serve for the opposite court. The Summer Court, as he calls it. Of how, after centuries of battles, the Queen of Summer had offered him to the King, as a truce. A gift. Her best knight, for the end of the war. 

The King had accepted. He had given a gift of his own to the Queen in return; but Percival does not know what that gift is. 

"It could be worse," Percival murmurs, to Credence's ear. They've managed to get even closer together, limbs intertwined. Credence cannot will his arms to let go of Percival. He doesn't seem intentioned to, either. 

"You're lying," Credence whispers against his neck, "I can hear it in your voice. You miss it. You miss the Summer." 

Percival doesn't deny it. Instead, he kisses him. Credence melts on his mouth, he lets himself be manhandled and laid down on his back. Percival's mouth never leaves his, not even for a second. Credence has never felt so complete. He tears his clothes off, their presence suddenly unbearable. 

They make love under a maple tree - or what strongly resembles one. How is it possible to love without a heart. How is it possible to feel like a human being after losing humanity itself. Percival carries Credence back to his chambers and loves him on his bed, too. 

Credence asks him to stay, without using his real name. Percival slips under the blankets with him, curls up around his back. Embraces him so tightly, so warmly. Credence can feel it, the summer, coming off of him in waves. 

Credence presses one hand to his chest. He feels the beat of his heart resonate between his ribs. He shivers. A Rule has been broken. There's fear in the next breath he takes, and anticipation. He expects monsters to kick down the door, anytime now. Catch them and bring them to the King. 

Percival hugs him tight. That's a terribly human thing to do. 

\---

In such a short time, Credence's feeling come back in full force. Day doesn't pass, that his love doesn't grow. It blossoms like a well-taken-care-of plant. Percival's kisses are his water, his caresses like sunbeams. 

The King spends less and less time under the Hill. Credence doesn't bother to ask, but Percival tells him anyway. 

"It's hunt season," he says. 

Credence lays in his bed, at night, listening to the howling of the Pack. He has seen them only once: massive, black dogs, with burning eyes and golden teeth, paws stained red with the blood of their preys. 

The King rides the biggest of all, sits proud on his broad back, grabbing fistfuls of furs in his hands. There's a manic smile to his face that Credence will never forget. He has a recurrent nightmare, where he is running through the dark woods, chased by those voracious beasts and their cruel owner. 

Percival goes with him, sometimes. Credence observes mournfully, pretending to care about the King's goodbyes. His touch has become something for Credence to endure. The King is so cold. He palms at Credence's face with those cold hands and kisses his forehead with cold chapped lips. Later, Credence will scrub at his skin until Percival has to forcefully pry his hands away. 

"I hate him." 

"Hush." 

"I hate him! "

Percival kisses him to shut him up. Credence mildly protests. Percival stares at him with exasperation, but Credence only sees the fullness of his lips. How red they are, bitten and glistening with spit. 

"You cannot say such things," he holds Credence so that he can't look away, "You can't. He has ears everywhere. If he knew--" 

"But I don't care," Credence throws himself at him once again, sending them both stumbling to the ground. He kisses Percival's face, with a reverence reserved to saints and gods, whispering, "don't care, I don't care, kiss me kiss me." 

Percival complies. If the King knew, what his servants get up to when he's not around. How little respect they have for his authority.

"You are going to be the death of me," Percival says, pushing his way between Credence's legs. Credence laughs, and laughs. He isn't afraid of death. He's gone, he's a madman. No, worse. 

He is in love. 

"I can't stand it," Percival confesses, eventually. They're in the safety of Credence's bedroom. He bites into the skin of Credence's shoulder, and says, "I can't stand the way he touches you, so intimately, in front of everyone," Credence writhes under his hands, nodding, yes yes yes. 

"How he looks at you," Credence claws at the flesh of Percival's back, carving bleeding, angry marks into his pale skin. 

"It's disgusting," they say, in unison. Credence moans, deliberately, loudly. Shamelessly. Percival shushes him, pressing a finger to his mouth. Credence wraps his lips around it. 

They fuck in every place that is quiet and hidden. Credence's chambers, the gardens, every nook and shadow of the Hill. Luck graces them, and they indulge in it. Credence can't get enough to that warmth, that bone-wrecking pleasure. Love feels so good. 

He cannot recall memories of his past life, but he's sure this feeling is brand new. 

It is luck, who entices their spirits. It gives them courage, and suddenly, meeting in secret locations and sharing a place at the same table isn't enough. 

"I have a plan," Percival says, one day, sitting under that very maple three (Credence still isn't sure it is, in fact, a maple three). 

"But you'll need to do as I say," Credence laces their fingers together, and places a kiss on each knuckle of Percival's hand.

"Anything," he responds, "Anything you'll tell me to do, I will, my love."  
Percival smiles at him, and his eyes are smiling too, and there is a burst of warmth in Credence's chest. 

Yes, he will do anything for him. For this god-like creature of Summer and Winter both. He will do anything for this love of his. 

\---

"I will do anything," Credence sobs, "Everything but this." 

It is another night of partying under the Hill. The King and his chosen group of hunters are about to leave. Amongst them, is Percival. Credence clings to his armor, and refuses to let go. His cheeks are wet with tears - who knew he still had those in him - and his lips tremble. 

"We can wait, we, we can wait another night--"

"Nay. This is the night. The last night of Winter. He will be weaker, slower, after tonight. This is our chance," he kisses Credence with a newfound fierceness. Credence clings to that kiss, for as long as his lungs let him. 

"I can't do this alone," he cries, with his eyes sewn shut. He can't bear to look into Percival's. He shakes his head, "I can't do this alone, please," he repeats, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. Percival is determined. Credence knows he cannot dissuade him. 

Percival cups his face with those warm hands, "Credence, listen to me," he says. His voice rings steady, and clear. 

"When we leave, you immediately go for the exit. Do you remember?" He points to a small cavity to the side of the ball room. Of course Credence remembers. That was how it all began. It hasn't been sealed, and as far as Credence knows, it is a free-way. 

Credence nods, "Yes, I remember." 

"Good." 

"Once you're out, run. Run as fast as you can, and don't look back. You understand, Credence? You have to run." 

Credence is shaking, "I can't do this without you," he whispers, angrily now, punching at Percival's armored chest. Why does he have to be so stubborn. You mule, he wants to say, you horrible bastard, don't leave me alone, don't leave like anyone else has ever done-- 

Percival takes Credence's hands in his. He's still smiling, staring at Credence like he's something special. Credence hates it and loves it and hates him and loves him.

"I will come to you, eventually. You have to trust me, Credence. I will find you, we will meet again. Don't cry, love, this isn't our end; it is but the beginning." 

Credence kisses him again, savors the feel and taste and warmth of Percival's mouth on his, for what may be the last time. Then, when their throats are sore and the tears have been consumed, Credence looks deep into Percival's eyes. 

"I love you," he says. 

Percival tucks a stray lock of hair behind Credence's ear, "I love you, too." 

Credence watches as he approaches his King. He climbs onto his hound's back, sword drawn. The King bids farewell to his court, regarding Credence with an especially sly grin. The earth of the Hill parts for them, and just like that, they're off. To the Great Hunt. The last one, for this Winter. 

He waits until the crowd has regained their usual activities, and then he carefully makes his way to the entrance. Some creatures try to attract his attention, with delicious foods and gossips and liquors, but Credence doesn't pay them any mind. 

His head thrums with fear. Every noise is somewhat muffled.  
Before anyone can notice him, he jumps into the hole. Needless to say, it immediately closes behind him. 

He can still hear the music, and the voices. Credence starts climbing his way up the Hill. It is significantly more difficult, to climb upwards. He slips so many times: for every meters he goes, he loses another three. He doesn't know how long it takes him - the tunnel seems to progressively get smaller, as if the earth was trying to trap him in. To smother him. 

Credence reaches the top of the Hill, and punches at the soil until it gives. Moonlight rains down on him, as he takes a big gulp of air. He pushes himself, until he's lying with his front facing the midnight sky. 

It is a striking sight. Credence had almost forgot how beautiful the moon was. A myriad of stars shine bright all around her. Credence admires them while he rests his weary bones. 

Then, Credence hears it. The howling. He sits up with a jolt. Percival's words pop up in his head, violent and loud. Run. Run. Run run run. 

He rises to his feet, and begins descending the Hill. His legs ache, and his lungs burn. He enters the forest, his one safe place. 

He finds it changed. It has become twisted, in his absence, a shadow of its former self. It doesn't recognize Credence either. Not that he blames it. He has changed too.

It fights him. It wants out with him, away. He is a stranger, and this woods don't welcome him anymore. Credence begs, with his tongue and with his mind. He begs the forest to please let him go, let him leave. 

Branches slap his face, he stumbles into roots and falls, wild animals growl at him. But Credence has no time to spend mourning his lost friendship, he has to run. The howling is getting closer. They're onto him, he knows. The King must've heard something. 

His bare feet throb each time he takes a step, ankles bleeding. Credence can't feel his body anymore, reaches forwards with his hands to grab onto something, anything. It is a living nightmare. 

Credence stumbles out of the forest after years of desperate running. At least, it feels so. Credence crumbles to the ground, exhausted. He grasps at his chest: his heart is galloping wild, as if trying to flee the cage of his ribs. 

He spits at the dark insides of the forest. A violent gust of wind makes the trees shake against each other. The woods groan in anger, but Credence couldn't care less. They've done nothing good to him. He wishes he'd never even entered them to begin with. 

Should have gone home, to wait for Mother and his sisters. Yes, Mother, and-- and. His sisters. What. What were they're names again? Credence cannot seems to pin them down. Now that he thinks about it, he can't even find their faces, in the vast wasteland of his memory. 

Credence can't remember. 

But, it makes sense. Of course he can't; he's given away his name, and with it, everything that was connected has vanished too. Has the King kept his promise? Or has he tricked him, turning him into a puppet for his horrendous show? 

Credence cries. He cries for himself, for his long gone memories and the life he'd wasted. He cries for the time lost, for his lover who has abandoned him, and for his home. His true home. 

His home. He needs to find it. He needs to go back, and make sure that everything is alright. Perhaps, in doing so, the memories will come back. Perhaps, there is a chance his family is still there. 

Reluctantly, he starts walking. He walks and walks, without a real direction, hoping to end up in the correct place. Hoping his feet still remember the way. The night sky above him is silent: no bird's song, no billowing wind. No howling. 

His dress made of flower petals doesn't protect him against the freezing breeze. Credence hugs himself, and resists the urge to lay on the ground in a fetal position until the sun rises. He has to find his home. He has to. 

He walks and walks and walks. And then he walks some more. He thought he was tired before; now his feet are like two piece of wood, insensitive and foreign to his body. Yet, they keep steady, and carry him on. Credence doesn't stop, doesn't falter. There is a home for him, somewhere. And a family, maybe. 

There is a home. There must be a home. Somewhere. 

\---

There is a home. It's just-- different. 

But Credence can tell, this is his home. He feels it in his bones, that familiar aching. Credence thought he'd lost that too. 

Breaking in isn't difficult. He smashes the blurry glass of a window and falls down into the pavement. He cuts his legs in the process, but they're so numb the pain does not fazes him. 

Credence looks around what used to be his Mother's bedroom: the room is much larger now. The bed is gone. Strange furniture all over the place. Credence frowns at a black, rectangular shape placed on a small table. 

He stumbles over to the kitchen, which seems to resemble their old kitchen, however peculiarly redecorated. Credence traces the shiny metal surface of a stove. It barely stings. 

Credence hears the footstep. He smiles, and whirls around to face his sisters, only to be welcomed home by the long, sturdy end of a bat. It hits him right across the face. Right where Percival had kissed him. 

\---

Credence falls asleep. He dreams of the Hill, and of his brave knight waiting underneath it. He looks at Credence and says:

Run.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @myheadsamesssogimmetheslash on tumblr. Hit me up.


End file.
